Sunday, July 30, 2017

For Woo, Who Made Me Milk With Cloves

A private sensation—
Explosions that inhere
In the indentation
And sacral diapir
Above my bum crack, where
The buttocks’ contours let,
And a pocket of air
Formed between in the sweat,
Once risen, egresses;
This private sensation
Is felt, effervesces
To mark the privation
Of awareness of it,
But could fizz like Cava,
Still I, like a spirit
Barred from his cadaver,
Benighted, may not know
Sensations inside you.